


Before The Qun

by DictionaryWrites



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Complicated Relationships, Existential Crisis, M/M, POV Fenris (Dragon Age), POV Hawke (Dragon Age), Power Dynamics, Qunari, Qunari Culture and Customs, Religion, Religious Conflict, Size Difference, Size Kink
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-21
Updated: 2019-10-15
Packaged: 2020-10-25 14:43:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20725916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: Hawke is a man with the weight of the world on his shoulders.There are ways, he is reliably informed, to relieve it.





	1. Chapter 1

“You’re not a pious man yourself, I take it?” Sebastian asked, and Hawke turned his head, glancing back to look at the Chantry Brother as they walked through the streets of Hightown. With the night having descended, the sky above was black as pitch, but there were too many lights lit in the city, even in the middle of the night, and he couldn’t see that many of the stars. Back in Lothering, even in the middle of town, the sky had always been a tapestry of shining silver, but now…

“Bethany believes in the Chantry, Carver did,” Hawke said. “Mother does.”

He was aware of Fenris’ eyes on him. The elf usually watched him carefully, always with a quiet, cautious care, but there was trust in his gaze, Hawke thought. He hoped so. There was something about Fenris that made Hawke take note, that made him keep track of when the elf watched him. He was… _Shy_ seemed to be the wrong word, when he moved with such broad shoulders and easy, loping grace, but he was quiet, he laughed, when Hawke flirted with him. Hawke wasn’t sure if he was pressing too hard, too fast.

Varric was quiet too, presumably making a few of his internal notes, in case the conversation was worth writing down later. He often did that, and it didn’t bother Hawke, anymore – it was part of Varric’s unique charm, he supposed, that Varric thought any of this was so worthy of keeping track of, making notes of…

“But not you?” Sebastian pressed. He didn’t sound annoyed, or pushy, like some Chantry people were. Just curious.

“I give to charity,” Hawke said. “I give to the Chantry callers, when they’re taking donation. I read the Chant, when I was younger.”

“You’re avoiding my question,” Sebastian said softly, his voice slightly wry, but not angry, not judgemental. Sebastian was never pushy about his faith, and it was calming to rest beside him and not be expected to jump into the complicated thought of it all…

“I suppose I am,” Hawke said. “I don’t know. Just not religious, I suppose.” He hesitated, feeling the shift of his tongue in his mouth as he considered going on, but Sebastian _was_ in the Chantry, no matter that the Mother was apparently annoyed with him for this vengeful stuff.

“Go on,” Sebastian said, with the experience of a guy used to people hesitating, Hawke guessed. “I won’t be offended.”

Hawke laughed quietly, and said, “Just that if the Maker has a plan for us, I just guess I’d suppose it makes more sense. Children die; people are tortured; horrible things happen all around us. I can’t really believe in the Maker’s plan and think that it’s meant to be like _this_.”

“Suffering is a part of life,” Sebastian said softly. “The suffering of others inspires the righteous to go forth.”

“Shame that the righteous are so outnumbered by the bastards,” Hawke said, and he heard Sebastian laugh behind him. He glanced at Fenris, and saw that he was smiling too, one of those almost-shy quirks of the lip on one side. It surprised him, that Sebastian would laugh, but that Fenris would smile… “I hear people talk about their place in the world, put in it by the Maker. I guess I don’t feel like I’ve ever had a place in the world. Not a place made for me.”

“Many would say,” Fenris said, “that one makes one’s own place. Alone, or with others.”

He met Hawke’s gaze, and Hawke inhaled, keeping it for just a second.

“Come on,” he murmured, when Fenris looked away. “Let’s get to work.”

**♔** **☩** **♔** **☩** **♔** **☩** **♔**

It wasn’t anger, exactly, that arrested Hawke in the Qunari compound, down on the docks. He was disgusted with the dwarf as he pissed off, muttering whatever under his breath, but that wasn’t it, it wasn’t the… _anger_. He didn’t feel angry. His chest felt weighted down by something more than disgust as he watched the dwarf go away – it wasn’t about being deceived, it was the lack of _respect_, and that whole thing about _profit_…

The entitlement!

“You will leave as well, human,” the Arishok rumbled, with a slow wave of his hand. “There is no more coin for you here.”

Hawke lingered for a long, long moment. His head was a mess of conflicting emotions, complicated thoughts, and he couldn’t make sense of them as his gaze shifted between the huge Qunari seated before him, resting on plain stone as if it was a throne, to the other Qunari around them.

“Hawke?” Aveline asked after a pause, reaching out, touching his shoulder, and Hawke took in a slow breath.

“Thank you, Arishok,” Hawke said slowly. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Those of Kirkwall demand much,” the Arishok said. “They come with grasping, greedy hands, like selfish children who do not consider the weight of their wants. And yet you, human, come before me, asking to _ask_.”

“Hawke,” Aveline said again, but Hawke brushed off her hand, taking a step forward. His gaze wouldn’t come away from the Arishok, and he found himself unable to look anywhere else.

“Why do you bother me?” the Arishok demanded, and yet his voice did not raise: it remained low and quiet, although the sound of it was sonorous enough that Hawke almost imagined he could feel it in his chest. “This city is a cesspit.”

“I don’t disagree,” Hawke said, “I’m not from here either. But Javaris made a stupid promise to _me_, and he lied, so why would you care if he gave me coin or not?”

The Arishok leaned forward in his seat, his eyes narrowing. “The dwarf dishonoured the name of the Arishok, in using it for his leverage. He cheated your party not of mere coin, but of respect, of trust, in his selfish want for gaatlok. The dishonour could not stand.”

“Why not?” Hawke asked. “I’m not Qunari. What does it matter if I’m dishonoured?”

“You _wish_ to be dishonoured?” the Arishok asked.

“No,” Hawke said.

“Then be grateful,” the Arishok said, “and take your leave.”

“I am grateful,” Hawke said. “If you hate Kirkwall so much, why don’t you go somewhere else?”

"That is none of your concern." 

"But if you don't like it—" 

“This city is a heaving mire,” the Arishok said. “Rife with ugliness, your lower city littered with the bodies of the begging poor, who have no purpose, and yet the upper castes are no better, lying idle in their beds, drinking wine, thinking only of themselves. You are one of the few that I have met with some degree of competence, of skill, and why? Because you too are selfish, and pursue profit at the hands of jibing dwarves.”

“I don’t care about profit,” Hawke said slowly.

“Then why _do_ you stay? How can you bear it?” The Arishok’s gaze met Hawke’s, intent and unblinking, but Hawke didn’t look away, didn’t allow himself to flinch. He set his feet, his shoulders broad, and kept his position.

“It’s not always the case that I can,” answered Hawke.

The silence in the compound rang out, seeming to echo from against the stone, and the Arishok raised his head as he leaned back in his seat, his hands upon his knees as he stared down at Hawke, who leaned back on his heels.

“Thank you, Arishok,” he said, for the second time, when the silence had gone on long enough. “You’ve given me a lot to think about.”

“Panahedan,” the Arishok said, and Hawke lead the way from the compound as he, Aveline, and Fenris stepped out. Fenris was watching him silently, and Hawke opened his mouth, turning his head to Aveline’s face, her brows furrowed in concern.

“What was that about?” she asked.

“Just curious,” Hawke said. “That’s all.”

**♔** **☩** **♔** **☩** **♔** **☩** **♔**

It was late in the night, and Hawke was walking alone, away from Gamlen, from Bethany, from Mother. He hadn't been able to sleep, turning things over and over in his head - helping Merrill with some favour she'd asked, thinking about the Circle coming for Bethany, and Anders, Anders needed him to collect some herbs for the Infirmary, but someone from the Fereldan refugee fund had asked him to—

Maker. 

He came to a stop, reaching up to touch his forehead. His head pounded. He had a journal where he wrote everything down, diarising tasks as he took them on, but he'd taken on too much, he knew he had, and even splitting tasks amongst his friends… 

"You seek an audience with the Arishok?" A Qunari soldier asked, and Hawke looked up. He was out by the docks, hadn't even realised he was hovering at the base of the stairs to the Qunari stronghold. Two guards were stationed at the entrance to the compound, and they were looking at him with unreadable expressions on their faces, their strong jaws set. "Come."

Hawke's feet were moving before he even bothered to argue, to try to explain - and what sort of explanation would that be, anyway? Sorry, I wasn't actually interested in talking to you as I hovered suspiciously outside your compound, I was just wandering this dangerous city for no reason at all under cover of nightfall. 

"Arishok, the warrior returns," he heard a Qunari say, and Hawke moved forward. The Arishok was seated upon his great throne, and upon seeing Hawke, his eyes narrowed, but he closed the book in his lap, passing it away. 

"Unsatisfied with bothering our compound in the daylight, you return even in the midst of night, and unaccompanied," he rumbled. "Why is it that you return?" 

"I had questions," Hawke said, trying to force his aching head to remember a few of them. "About the Qun." It was true, after all. 

"Does a flower have questions about the sky?" The Arishok asked, in a tone that sounded threatening, but on someone else, might possibly have been described as amused. Qunari were hard to read. "Does a tree question the stars?" 

"I don't know," Hawke said. "There aren't many plants in my social circle." He watched the movement of the warriors about the encampment. Some were busy, moving back and forth, making repairs to some objects, or pouring over papers. Others were standing stockstill at regular intervals, all of them with swords on their backs: all of them had their gazes trained on Hawke. "I don't know anything about the Qun. Not much word has travelled here to Kirkwall." 

"We do not come here with words for mewling children," the Arishok said. 

"Even if a mewling child asks very nicely, with a very well-decorated please? Perhaps with a cherry on top?" 

The Arishok stared down at him, his face a hard mask. It didn't show in his face, but Hawke could see he didn't understand - and yet if he asked, Hawke could justify asking a question in turn. The Arishok no doubt saw the gambit for what it was, and he shifted in his seat, his elbow resting on the throne's arm. 

"How can I help you if I don't understand you?" Hawke asked, spreading his hands. 

"We have asked for no help from you." 

"And yet if living in Kirkwall had taught me anything, it's that everybody asks me for help, sooner or later." 

"Here lies your problem," the Arishok said, standing to his feet. At the top of the stairs, he was obscenely tall, easily a foot and a half taller than Hawke himself, but Hawke didn't allow himself to stumble back as the Arishok slowly descended the stairs. He was coming down lower, but with every step he took, he seemed to be taller to Hawke, and Hawke felt his breath catch in his throat when the Arishok stood directly before him, forcing Hawke to look directly up at his face. "You take orders from everyone you meet, for your life lacks hierarchy: children, elves, dwarves, even bas-saarebas - all command your attention, and you are pulled in one direction and then another. How can you live in this way?" 

"I don't take orders," Hawke said. "People ask me for help, and I choose to help them." 

"Do you?" the Arishok asked, arching an eyebrow. His voice was surprisingly quiet up close, and yet still so low and rumbling Hawke imagined he could feel it echoing in his own ribcage, like a thrown rock echoing in a cavern. "If an elven child fell at your feet, wailing its plea, could you choose not to help?" 

"No," Hawke said. "Why would I? How could I?" 

"Then elven children are your responsibility," the Arishok said. "Dwarven children, human children, Qunari children. These all fall beneath your purview, so long as they cry. Widows? Bas-saarebas with bruises on their knees? Warriors who have lost their swords? Poor, starving farmers? Rich nobles reclining on their furs? Who is it that you say no to?" 

"I don't know what a bas-saarebas is," Hawke said. 

"You say no to _no one_. You take orders from all who might voice them. And why? For profit?" 

"I don't—" 

"You lack direction," the Arishok said, leaning in close, and Hawke's hands clenched at his sides, but he didn't reach for his daggers even as the Qunari leaned in right over him, their noses almost touching. He smelled of some spiced oil Hawke wasn't familiar with, but made his mouth water. "And _you_ offer _me_ help. Under the Qun, a karashok takes orders. Direction is given to him, and to his fellows: united by higher order, they do not waver. But you? You take orders from all who would give them, and here under their weight you wander the streets, clutching your head… Life is so complicated here in this heap of rotted ambition, and yet what do you accomplish? Nothing. Simplicity would be the greatest kindness any of you could know."

"Simplicity? That's what you call it, following higher orders? And if the higher orders are wrong?" Hawke asked, his head pounding, his mouth dry. All of the Qunari were big, but the Arishok was especially so, and Hawke could hear his own blood pumping in his ears, couldn’t help but wonder if the Arishok could hear it too, standing so close to him. "If you don't agree?" 

"There is no _agree_. There is to do and to not do: there is to live and to die. And here, festering? You are closer to one than the other." 

The Arishok's hand touched his neck, his palm obscenely huge compared to Hawke's body, and Hawke went for his dagger, but the Arishok didn't flinch. He slid two fingers down the back of Hawke's neck, and pressed on a knot of muscle on his shoulder. It was a smooth movement, practised and easy, and it was indescribable.

Hawke grunted, his knees weakening, his body leaning in toward the Qunari’s, but the pressure made the knot shift and disappear, and suddenly he felt like half the tension in his body had dissipated all at once. He gasped in a breath, all but floating on the haze of relief, his nose almost buried in the Arishok’s shoulder it was so close, and the Arishok looked down at him with a sharp-toothed smirk. 

"You do massages professionally? That what Arishok means in Qunari?" Hawke asked breathlessly. 

The smirk didn’t falter. "Qunlat," the Arishok said, turning and walking away, "is the name of our tongue. Go. Attend to your million tasks. Bother me no more.”

“What if I have more questions?” Hawke asked. His skin felt like it was on fire.

“You will probably ask them,” the Arishok said, not turning around to face him, and Hawke felt himself laugh.

**♔** **☩** **♔** **☩** **♔** **☩** **♔**

“You were curious,” Fenris said lowly, sitting down beside the other man. It was relatively quiet in the Hanged Man: the hour was not yet even ten o’clock, and doubtless, Varric and Isabela were each still abed, the tavern without its usual denizens, but for one or two that never left the tavern’s warm embrace. “About the Qunari.”

Fenris had been somewhat surprised, to find Hawke here as he’d come in with a delivery for Varric, but when Fenris had waved to him, Hawke had waved back, and he had made the choice to settle down with him for a time. The incident at the Qunari compound, of course, had been several days ago…

“I didn’t know you knew any Qunlat,” Hawke said, and Fenris felt himself surprised, that Hawke should know the name of the tongue. “You learned it when you escaped?”

Fenris considered, for a moment, the value in telling him, but he elected not to, his tongue still in his throat. There were things that were surprisingly easy to say to Hawke, who was so often easy to speak to, to tell things. He was handsome, that much was true, and sometimes so readily flirtatious, but more than that… And yet he did not like to talk about his escape.

“Sorry,” Hawke said quietly, apparently reading his hesitation in his face. “I know you don’t like to talk about it.”

“You are a curious man,” Fenris said. “I have noted this in the way you conduct yourself – always asking questions, always analysing them as you might.”

Hawke nodded his head slowly, and Fenris watched as he brought his hand up to his mouth, dragging his fingers through the bristles of his short beard. He had to wonder what it would be like to touch it himself. Danarius’ beard had always felt soft, but those bristles looked… _Rough_. They looked like they’d feel—

“Fenris?” Hawke said.

“You said something?” Fenris asked.

“You went away for a moment there,” Hawke said, giving him a little grin. “Frolicking with the Qunari in your head?”

“No,” Fenris said, but his own lips twitched, and he watched as Hawke took a slow pull of his drink. “Does it… deter you? The Chantry?”

“Deter me?” Hawke repeated, his eyebrows raising, and his head tilted just slightly to the side as he looked at Fenris. “No, it doesn’t deter me.”

“What you said to the Brother…” Fenris said, but Hawke shook his head.

“I just don’t like talking ill of the Chantry for no reason, that’s all. I don’t really belong in the conversation. Bethany’s a mage, but she still reads the Chant of Light, still believes in it. Seems like it’s more something that she should think about than me. I heard that the Chantry in Tevinter is…”

“Different,” Fenris said, finishing the sentence as it trailed off. “Full of mages? Full of blood magic? Yes. The Chantry proper does not recognise the Chantry of the Tevinter Imperium, and label them blasphemers, as they ought. I do not know what faith I have, if any, but any thought I had to the Chantry here in Kirkwall would not at all be affected by that which occurs in the Chantry halls of Minrathous, or any other Tevene city.”

“I keep wanting to just chat with you,” Hawke said, eyes glittering with rueful amusement. “Keep putting my foot in it. And then my leg, my waist, my chest, my arms…”

“You do not,” Fenris said. “You need not tip-toe about the subject of the Imperium, or the Qunari, or any other subject. I may not answer questions posed to me about my past – I value my privacy, as the having of it is yet new to me – but I do not wish for you to feel that you can ask me nothing whatsoever.”

“And if I ask you if I can buy you a drink?” Hawke asked.

Fenris laughed, quiet and low. “Perhaps another time,” he said. “When it is past noon.”

“Spoilsport,” Hawke said, and Fenris smiled as he stood up from the table, walking across the room with the package for Varric. He had… not _hoped_, exactly, but had wondered, hopefully, if Hawke would watch him go, if his eyes would roam over Fenris’ body. They did not. As he made his way up the stairs, he saw that Hawke was once more staring into the space before him, silent in his reverie.

Shaking his head, he continued his way up the stairs.

**♔** **☩** **♔** **☩** **♔** **☩** **♔**

The next time, Hawke went on purpose.

It was a few days later, and he couldn’t sleep, once more. It wasn’t quite as hectic, but he still couldn’t sleep – he kept thinking about Fenris, quiet, feeling Hawke out. Did he trust Hawke? _Could_ he trust him? What could Hawke do, he wondered, to get Fenris to trust him more, to…?

No.

He couldn’t sleep.

They allowed him into the compound without a word, and Hawke ascended the stairs. The Arishok was waiting for him, stood from his seat, and when Hawke slowly followed him across the compound, he led Hawke into the building, lit by dim oil lamps the like of which Hawke had never seen before. They acted as heaters as well as sources of light, and he put his palm out toward one of them, exhaling softly.

“Remove your clothes,” the Arishok said. He was behind Hawke, had moved behind him as he’d come into the room, one that was curtained with red cloth and had a low pallet on the ground, lined with a blanket with furs stacked beside it, and pillows…

“Don’t know if you’re in proportion or not,” Hawke said, feeling dizzy with want, “but _I_ am.”

“If you do not remove your clothes,” the Arishok said, leaning in toward him, his breath hot on the back of Hawke’s ear, “I will remove them for you.”

“Promise?” Hawke asked, and the Arishok grabbed him by the hair.


	2. Chapter 2

The sex was good.

The Arishok shoved him on his back on the pallet, pinned his arms over his head and fucked him until he came, then flipped him onto his belly and fucked him from behind, dragged his teeth over the back of Hawke’s neck, dug his claws into Hawke’s waist, his thighs, his back. Hawke was marked all over by the end of it, bruised and scrammed and _aching_.

“Your come is thicker than mine,” Hawke said, drawing his fingers over the wetness on his thigh and rubbing at his fingers.

The Arishok’s laugh came as a rumble, and he shoved Hawke own on his belly again, running a wet cloth between his thighs. Hawke hissed, expecting the water to be cold, but it was warm, and the Arishok didn’t shy away from curling his finger in toward Hawke’s open arse, wrapped in the cloth, and then he pulled it back, tossing it aside.

“Dress, then,” the Arishok said.

“No,” Hawke replied, and he leaned back on the heels of his hands, spreading his legs wider on the pallet.

“No?” the Arishok repeated, wryly. “Your cock is spent, human.”

“Is yours?”

The Arishok showed his teeth when he smiled, falling on his knees between Hawke’s thighs and grasping loosely at his throat, but Hawke shot out with his other hand, spreading it on the huge panel of the Arishok’s bare chest, still painted.

“What does Arishok mean?” Hawke asked.

The Arishok looked at him, his gaze concentrated, landing on Hawke’s face, roving down over his body. “Shok,” he said, “means _war_. Fight. Struggle. Ari, at the front of the word, means _one_. At the end, means all, many. The collective.”

“So Arishok is… One of War. Shokari would be many wars?”

“No. _Ari_ can mean leader.”

“War-Leader.”

“Yes.”

“Ariqun is leader of the Qun, then. Arigena… Gena. What does—”

“Parshaara,” the Arishok said.

“What does that mean?” Hawke asked, leaning up and against him, even as the Arishok dragged him forward by his knees, making him drop onto his back.

“_Enough_,” the Arishok answered, and when his teeth dragged down Hawke’s chest, Hawke gasped and arched up to meet him.

\--

It was only Fenris and Varric left in Varric’s quarters, and Fenris sipped at the bottle of wine he had left. He’d brought two, when he’d come out for Wicked Grace – Varric had smiled widely at him, had shoved a young man out of the most comfortable chair and said it was Fenris’ throne for the night.

He liked Varric.

There was something about the dwarf that was engaging, heart-warming – he was genuinely kind, thoughtful and focused, and Fenris respected his dedication to freedom, to the liberty, the comfort, that other people had a right to.

“He’s at the compound again,” Fenris said quietly, leaning against the cushioned back of the chair, and Varric looked up from his letters. There was a companionable charm in being able to sit like this, drink in Varric’s presence as he worked on his letters or his latest draft. “Isn’t he?”

“Third night this week,” Varric said.

“Do you know which of the Qunari it is?” Fenris asked.

“Which one our dear friend is shacking up with? Why assume it’s just one?”

Fenris felt his mouth fall open, and whatever showed on his face, it made Varric soften.

“Sorry, Broody, I’m sure it’s just one Qunari. I don’t know which one. I know some of them go into the Blooming Rose sometimes, so it’s not like they don’t have sex. Why, you worried?”

“Yes,” Fenris said. “The Qun… Its philosophy is not like that of Tevinter, nor again like any in the Free Marches. It does not allow for the personal, for the individual, in the way that Hawke might think. Qunari don’t have husbands or wives. They don’t have families, or pets. It isn’t that they don’t care, but… They care for those of the Qun. Those outside are basra – things. They don’t matter. Hawke does not matter, not to them.”

“He does to us,” Varric said softly. “Right, Broody?”

“Fasta vass,” Fenris muttered, without rancour, and Varric chuckled.

“Talk to him,” he suggested.

“More wine,” Fenris retorted, and Varric pushed his glass toward him.

\--

It was raining.

The water came down in hard, rushing streams from the sky, making Hawke feel heavy and sodden as they trudged over the sandy earth, toward the main part of the coast. This was where Saemus was meant to be, so far from Kirkwall itself, the young man only _seventeen_—

There was an ache in Hawke’s muscles, because he’d been at the compound the night previous, but it actually made it easier to concentrate, feeling the ache there. It had been… How long, now? Two months, since the first time. No one had mentioned it, just yet, but Hawke knew it wasn’t because they hadn’t noticed.

Isabela knew something was up for certain – Varric, Hawke was aware, probably knew everything.

Bethany was beginning to suspect he had a _partner_, rather than…

Well.

Behind him, he could hear Fenris’ armour barely clinking; he could hear Aveline’s armour regularly making a smooth, well-polished sound as she moved. Varric was damp, and wet, and cold, but he’d actually given up on complaining, at this point.

He saw the soft blue of his tunic shining in the sun, so well-dressed, even out here, on the coast. He looked _well_: clean and neat and tidy, and plainly not a victim of kidnapping. He was gasping, bent over a Qunari on the floor, and he could see that the man was crying.

“Why did you kill him?” he demanded of Ginnis, and she laughed, savagely, gestured with a knife at the corpse on the ground.

“Those things? They’re fucking _cattle_, mad bulls with horns. We’ve done the world a favour.”

“I won’t go with her,” Saemus gasped out, voice ragged, and there was fury in his eyes. “Vashedan _bitch_.”

“Taashath,” Hawke instructed.

Saemus stared up at him, but then he nodded, and Hawke went for his dagger.

\--

“We aren’t going to bury him?” Aveline asked.

“They don’t bury their dead,” Saemus said. He was shaking slightly, and Hawke had thrown a leather jerkin over his shoulders. There were no tears on his cheeks, no more crying, but he looked pale and slightly out of it, staring into space. He looked old, for his age. “He’s just a corpse, now. Asala as— asht…?”

“Asala astaarit,” Hawke supplied. When Aveline stared at him, expectant, he said, “The soul rises. He was Tal-Vashoth, right?”

“He was Ashaad,” Saemus said quietly, dully, uncertain of meeting Hawke’s gaze. “But— Yes. Tal-Vashoth.”

“I’m not Qunari,” Hawke said, and Saemus stared up at him, uncertain, as if he was trying to figure it out. “I’m not going to lecture you about rebellion and truth. Come on. Back to Kirkwall.”

“So,” Varric said, as they came along the path of the Wounded Coast, heading back toward the city, Kirkwall a rusted speck on the horizon. “Guess you’re getting the hang of the language, huh, Hawke?”

“It’s coming in dribs and drabs,” Hawke said. “I can ask for directions to the brothel in Elvish, too.”

“Oh, I see,” Varric said. “It’s just multiculturism. Know any fun dwarfish words?”

“Isana,” Hawke said.

Varric laughed. “Where’d you pick that one up?”

“It’s on some of the shipments Anders gets in,” Hawke said. “Lyrium, straight from Orzammar.”

“You speak Qunlat very well,” Saemus said.

“No,” Hawke said. “I don’t.”

“Ebasaam kabethari,” Fenris muttered. Hawke glanced at him, but he wasn’t as pissed off as he sounded, judging by his expression or his stance. He met Hawke’s gaze, and when Hawke smiled at him, Fenris noded in response, unsmiling.

“What does that mean?” Aveline asked.

“We’re all…” Saemus said, uncertain, but Hawke could see in his face that he wanted to work it out for himself. “Simple?”

“Literally, simple people,” Hawke said.

“It’s a word for people who aren’t converted to the Qun yet,” Fenris said, “but where Qunari have a presence.”

“Are _you_ viddathari?” Saemus asked.

Fenris laughed. “No,” he said.

“But your accent is better than his,” Saemus said, then seemed to realize what he’d said, and turned his head away.

“Thanks,” Hawke said. “Getting my pronunciation corrected by a teenager. That’s what I wanted today.”

He looked at Saemus, leaning down slightly so that the young man could see his face properly, and Saemus smiled. It was a weak one, but it was a smile, and Hawke focused on the road ahead of them as they kept walking.

“I’m from Tevinter,” Fenris said. “My familiarity with Qunlat is more than Hawke’s.”

“The Tevinters are at war with the Qunari.”

“Yes.”

“Were you—”

“Parshaara,” Fenris said.

“Yessir,” Saemus muttered, looking down at the floor.

“Parshaara,” Varric repeated.

“Enough,” Hawke supplied.

“Yeah,” Varric said. “I got that one.”

\--

“Can I sleep here?” Hawke asked. He was lying on his side, watching the Arishok, who was lying beside him, on his back.

The Arishok looked at him, smirking, and he reached out to tug at Hawke’s hair. It didn’t hurt: it was firm, but not painful. “No,” the Arishok said. “You have a bed in the slums. It is yours.”

“I’d rather sleep here.”

“Would you have me sleep in _your_ bed?”

“Depends,” Hawke said. “I’d need to measure your horns against the doorway.”

The Arishok slapped his thigh, and Hawke laughed, shoving him back.

“The Viscount’s son, Saemus,” Hawke said, “he’s got a fascination with the Qunari.”

“And you haven’t?”

“I’m just saying he might come down here,” Hawke murmured. “I wouldn’t be surprised. I wouldn’t be surprised if he wanted to convert.”

The Arishok’s expression didn’t change, even as his palm landed on Hawke’s thigh, fingers splaying possessively over the skin. His lips were pressed together, and Hawke didn’t look away from him, feeling the warmth of the room on his skin, the softness of the fur beneath them, feeling the Arishok’s _heat_, his body.

“He said this?”

“He asked Fenris if he was viddathari.”

“The Dalish?”

“He isn’t Dalish,” Hawke said. “You know he isn’t Dalish. You want me to tell you about him, you can ask. I won’t tell you, but you can ask.”

The Arishok shrugged his broad shoulders. He didn’t bother to look guilty, or cowed – it wasn’t the first time he’d said something blatantly wrong, trying to tease out an explanation without asking for it from Hawke, and it was a ploy that Hawke had yet to fall for. Each time, he seemed more amused with Hawke’s indignation.

“You’d have made a shit Hissrad,” Hawke said.

“Yes,” the Arishok said. “This is why I am Arishok. The elf wants you.” Hawke said nothing as he watched the Arishok’s hand slide up his thigh, curling around his arse, squeezing and making the bruising underneath his palm sing with quiet pain. “You haven’t seen him watch you? Hunger for your skin?”

“He isn’t the only would-be viddathari in Kirkwall, is he?” Hawke replied.

“Other than you?” the Arishok asked: a cut for a cut.

“I’m not viddathari,” Hawke said, sitting up. “My sister is a mage. You think I want to see her with her mouth sewn shut, chains on her wrists?”

“You tell yourself our saareebas are prisoners,” the Arishok murmured, shaking his head. “But you know this is not true. Go to your bed. Seek out the arms of your painted elf, if you cannot sleep alone.”

“We’re going for the Deep Roads tomorrow. I don’t know when I’ll be back,” Hawke said.

“This is why you ask for my bed, as an imekari unwilling to be parted from his tamassran?”

“Oh, you’re my tamassran now?” Hawke asked, raising his eyebrows as he pulled on his trousers, his shirt. “You could do with nicer tits.”

“I do not hope you die,” the Arishok murmured. “Panahedan, Hawke.”

“Panahedan,” Hawke replied.

\--

On the boat back from the Deep Roads, Hawke was silent. It was the quietest Fenris had ever seen him, his jaw set, staring into space.

“When we get back to Kirkwall,” Fenris said, “where will you go?”

“I will tell my mother that I am responsible for the deaths of not one, but both of my younger siblings,” Hawke said lowly, his voice hoarse and slightly rumbling. His grip was so tight on the railing’s edge that his knuckles had turned white, and Fenris could see a muscle twitch in his jaw. “Then… I don’t know. Stay at the Hanged Man.”

“There are rooms in the mansion,” Fenris said. “If you don’t stay elsewhere.”

“Thanks,” Hawke said softly.

“Do you—” Fenris began, and then stopped. “I am sorry, Hawke. For your loss. She was…”

Hawke nodded, shortly.

Gossip came to the Hanged Man that night, that he’d gone straight from his house down to the Docks.

\--

“You let me sleep here,” Hawke mumbled, the next morning, raising his head. He dreamt of Bethany. Dreamt of her, gasping, choking, infected with the Blight after they’d come so _fucking_ far to get away from it, just like Wesley had, _just like_…

Mother had broken a vase. He’d never seen her so angry, and when she’d fallen on him, making to punch his chest, he’d caught her wrists and held her until she stopped crying, until she snapped at him to get out. Fenris had been right. He’d gone directly to the compound, weak as he was.

“Shok ebassit hissra,” the Arishok murmured, and his fingers stroked up Hawke’s naked back. It was gentle, but firm, the same way you’d stroke a cat. “Do you remember what means?”

“Struggle is an illusion,” Hawke said, surprised by how calm it made him feel. “Maraas shokra.”

“Yes,” the Arishok agreed. “Sleep. You look like a corpse.”

“Thanks,” Hawke mumbled, but he let his eyes close shut.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! Feel free to hit up [my ask on Tumblr,](http://patricianandclerk.tumblr.com/ask) to talk about DA in general, and definitely to recommend blogs to follow! I am open for requests (for Origins, II, and Inq). I also run a no-drama Dragon Age Discord, which [you can join here.](https://discordapp.com/invite/ttgP5v8) Please, please comment if you can!


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